En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Talking Iwth A Stranger

he says he is in china
teaching, then he says
not teaching only,
he is researching on the
roots of language,
mandarin he speaks
and bisaya too,
a man of the world
from the island
where i live
and call
home,
he is a stranger and i tell him my name, my work,
i show myself with what i write and he takes time to read all
until
he sees something wrong and he corrects it,
my choice of words
my spelling, the do's and dont's in poetry in writing a letter to a friend
in composing an eulogy
a song of departure
a poem of regret, the last thing he says was that he once fished
and that the sea has become his home, and then
i knew him, but i will not tell him who he is.

it is enough that we have become friends.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry, That's What I Write

Parody of the classic song Money, That's What I Want

The best words on the page are here
Teaching you a hell of a lot more about life
Then just the birds and bees
Now you know words of magic
Words of wisdom
Given birth
Right here, right now
Oh, yes
Poetry, that's what I write

My wicked writing should give you such a thrill
So don't be shy
Go ahead and click on this link right here
My poetry won't pay your bills, no
But I can promise to give you some kinky thrills
Now you know
Poetry, that's what I write
Bright and beautiful
Perfect as can be
Poetry, that's what I write
Oh yeah baby
Poetry
Poetry, that's what I write

My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby

Poetry, that's what I like
Poetry
Oh yes
Poetry, that's what I love
Poetry, that's what I write
Whoa

My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby

Well, now read my poetry
Ooooh, oooh yeah my poetry
Read my
Love my
Poetry, oh yeah that's what I like
What I love
Oh yeah baby
Poetry, that's what I write
Yeah

2008 Ramona Thompson

poem by Ramona Thompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sometimes I Read Or Hear A Poem

SOMETIMES I READ OR HEAR A POEM

Sometimes I read or hear a poem
And know there is real Poetry in the world-
Poetry that takes me beyond anything I myself could know or write-
Poetry of a different kind of Beauty -
A language I never thought to hear
But once heard charms and delights me
As never before.

There is Poetry-
And there are real Poets-
And there are yet Dreams to be written-

So write on Stranger
Maybe you are the next one
A real poet
A voice the world truly needs and wants and loves to hear
Beyond any ever heard before.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Need to Write

I need to write a poem, but how shall I do it,

First of all shall I write standing up, or just sit;

Until I get comfortable, I won't be able to start,

All the words will be muddled up, and then it'll fall. Apart.

Now! I got it right, I will choose the title to write about,

No good getting frustrated, or even sit or pout;

Just need to relax, and then the words will come easy,

Cause if I try to hard, Then my stomach will feel queasy.

I know what sort of holiday would people like,

And as I start the poem, the hall clock did strike;

Oh! It is now is what I can do, write about the time passing,

And so I have the heading, the thoughts on paper lasting.

It's got colour, size, And description, and the taste of art,

It's come from my mind, emotions, and also from the heart;

It has vision, and thoughts about where I want to go,

Yes! I think it'll get some to agree, to me they'll show.

So if you have a problem to write a poem or story,

Just read this poem, as a help, it's a help from me;

Don't force the idea, or rush it through at all,

Just go have a cuppa, read an article or a friend call.

Eventually it'll come, the words will flow along,

You might even end up, turning it into a song;

Writing poems will be rewarding, just give a go,

And you might enjoy it, they may end up in a show.

poem by Margaret Haig
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poems vs Songs

I may be right or I may be wrong
But, when you hear a singer singing a song
It is his or her voice that carries a message
With music providing an easier passage
To a space behind the eardrums
Resulting often in a rhythmical shaking
Of hips and boobs and flailing of arms

I may be wrong or I may be right
When you read a good poem it brings you delight
The rhyming of words makes poem tick
Your imagination does the trick
The poem's message illuminates the mind
Translating human language into language divine

When I'm writing my poetry, whether poem or song
The former always comes right and the latter wrong.

poem by Slava Olchevski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Post-Modern Poetry

The post-modern poem is the poet's surprise-
It has no agenda but its own interpretation-
It reads the ‘expressive I' as an infinite longing of the soul
To know and be known-

It writes out of many different places
But finds it difficult to call one its home-
It has many names and voices
But none speaks with an authoritative rhythm -

It is only its own alone home
And so I writing it know
It will not be found in me by those who write it as their own-

Chaos, perhaps, is its signature,
And loss of all the ancient rhythms and forms-
It wants to wander where it will as it does -

But I, I thinking back to what we were
And remembering years of reading others
Know too its voices are many even within the single self-

There is no ‘modern' anymore and no ‘post- modern' either
In the age where everything is accessible
And all is easily found and communicated
The single soul's signature cannot mean a name is real -

Only where all effort is and fails
Only where nobody really is
Only where many write and no one can really read
Perhaps beyond this
Beyond post- modern poetry
This poem too will teach Poetry how to live.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My poems is not Poetry

My Poems are not Poetry
Poetry rhythm is essential part
Communicative act of rhythms
Where words created music
An effect on the reader’s and listener
Words beginning with the same letter
And achieve a poetically effect.

My Poems has no rhythms
For the first time I don’t know
What to say and how to show.
Many words is not my style
Let me say, I like your smile
I don’t think I should like you,
Unfortunately I do.

I'm not sure now how to write
I lost my idea how, where words
Are used in away similar
Creating Music, where you find
Languages of rhymes

I write Prose but not Poetry
Using a regular rhythm
Where vast majority
Of languages spoken and written.

I try to be a barn, the muses were believed and inspire
I try to hard without success,
you already know, I guess.
Anyhow, it doesn’t matter
Usually I do not write
Things like this, I never tried,
for the first time I don’t know
what these lines should say or show.

Allegory, metaphor equated
Meaning lie outside the narrative
Acrostic phase when read together
Alliteration words same letter for poetical effect
Satire is a form of humour
Limerick is a short humorous poem.
And Honestly, I don’t regret
Things I did and words I said.

7. January 2008

poem by Mary Wismer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Living the words

i pluck out all those gigantic
words in a dictionary with the wish
to write a high brow poem

it turns out a fruit i do not even know how to call
neither sweet, nor sour, nor a pearly shape
nor anything that you can find in this world
the final poem glaring at me like a stranger
one bumps into in a foreign town

all the words beg me for the reason
to grace my poem, they say they
are not even my friend for i know them not
that they have never interacted with me
and i have never caroused with them

they dont mind, they say, standing in
for the verses as new friends do for formality
but frankly tell me we are not yet in such spirit or
company as to perform a dynamic act

i reread the poem to find indeed they are mere words
friends that got thrown together without knowing
what to expect from each other

they bow out and the whole poem just got lost
in the wilderness of my mind

i seek those friends out anyway, to share a part of their life
so that i can if needed be, belt out a proper song with them
to impress the world, to throw the audience out of their seats

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scribbles Transcribed

Some write for glory and for fame.
I write because I am obsessed
and wordplay is my favourite game.

I concentrate on poetry
Because I find it to my taste
and pass my time creatively.
I could not sit and watch T.V
and live my life vicariously.
That would drive me to insanity.

I have a wide vocabulary
which I love to exercise
Harmless but it amuses me.

What better way to pass the time
than writing formal poetry
I do not find it hard to rhyme

I’ll never be a household name
Which does not bother me at all.
I write for fun and not for fame.

My writing will not make me rich
I very rarely publish it
I merely write to scratch my itch.

My pad and pen accompany me
No matter where I choose to go
Though I scribble illegibly.

Record what takes my interest
and jot down anything I see.
When I get home I do my best.

To read the jottings I have made
which is sometimes difficult
as pencilled words tend to fade.

I find that if I persevere
for long enough I understand
enough to make it very clear.

I sometimes wish that I could write
In a clear and cursive script
If I had perhaps I might.

But I am too impatient to write
All of down the things I want to
My scribbling will have to do.

Thank God for printers and P.Cs
So when I post its legible
and you can read my verse with ease.

The feed back which you give to me.
I read with greatest interest.
And it improves my poetry.

My hand writing will never be
capable of being read
by anybody else but me..

(18-Jun-07)

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Egoism of Poets

We don’t write poetry,
Poetry writes us.
How can we make poetry,
If we are part of poetry.
The world around us is poetry.
Poetry is already defined.
Calling ourselves poets.
Selfishness in every line.
Egoism in every word.
Stealing poetry from the world.
That already exists in every form.
It’s written in every mist,
Every tree, every bliss.
Who are we to write?
Calling ourselves masterminds.
Trapping ourselves in believe
That we are creating something unique
The world at our feet.
Just too full fill our need.
Even this poem is an act
of a selfish deed.
Every letter in ink.
Created through love and sin.
Writing on a paper
But it’s the world’s skin.
Pressing on the surface.
To see blue blood is our purpose.
Thinking poetry is ours.
Poetry devoured
By poets every hour.
Poems all around us.
Turning grey to dust.
Turning brown to rust.
We have captured the most
But there is still so much.
Bleeding away in disaster, poverty
And war.
Ink to us all.
A poet’s only lord.
His only norm, his only home.
His precious and beloved poem.

We should be ashamed.

poem by Nadim Lost Soul
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Multitasking, The Music And The Poem And Nothing

as i write this poem i am downloading music
copying them from the cd to
Windows Media Player for all these Bossa Nova Experience

Call me, A certain Sadness, The Trouble with Hello
The Shadow of Your Smile, Fly Me To the Moon,
NighT aND dAY, hEY lOOK aT tHE sun, HeRE'S a RAiny Day,
Put a LIttle Love Away,
Where is Love?

it takes time to choose the music to load and to check
if everything is proper and so

i also take a glance at poems
the First Fifty Famous Poems of this World
read some again
reviewing how does each word feel and fall and rebound in my
heart

i write some, well, i am not that really serious about what to write
i just write what comes to my head and when i think i ended
the making of this poem

i read what others write, not really admiring their wisdom
or style or what they write there as some trash
garbage, but just the same to while my hours away doing other things

i still read them, building this interest to know what this person who claims to
be a poet is driving at
some nails for hard wood, sounding like carpentry
well, i don't really believe that poetry can change this world
my world
of multitasking, hopping from one task to another, like

island hopping with my friends in this archepielago
from one white sand to another and taking some beers and
juices

these juices of the mind and of the body, lustily flowing from my thighs
as i wipe them and learn to live a pure life
from the perspective of the Holy Pope, oh well, i don't judge other people
and i simply forgive them

like myself, i am not so hard about myself, not even on poetry
since this is just fun
clean fun, writing

opps, another cd to copy now,
i will have

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, Paper Mache, Make it Easy on Yourself,
vINCENT, . Breaking Up is Hard with You, All the THINGS you ARe,
LIGHT My FIRE, Love is STRONGER far than WE

and CHopin and bEETHOVEN, AND iL dIVO
AND

AND OF course,

I honestly lOVE you.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Words

I write there, and then you write they’re
I write who, and then you write whom
I misspell my words, too me you then curse
Then you call me a stupid loon.
You call me names, from which I refrain
Then I am off to a different room.

I forget punctuation's, It gives you frustrations
I don't use a contraction, you give me verbal action
Then I misspell a word, you call me absurd
I give you my silence it’s my only reaction.
You call me a name, my innocence I proclaim
My humility is seems, is your only satisfaction.

I sit at my typewriter, I still am a fighter
As I close my eyes, words still materialize
Words are my friends, rhyming is my sin
Maybe someday that, you will realize.
I finish another poem, to the world I show them
I write another verse, it becomes my universe.

You are my inspiration, my poems your creation
You correct what I write, it gives you such delight
You enjoy to respell, at words which you excel
You tell me they are wrong, I know you are right.
But you still are my friend, I hope it will never end
I am the poet, your a wordsmith and you show it.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry Has Some Advantages

Poetry has some advantages
Over other forms of Literature-

It is ordinarily smaller than most other kinds of writing
It can be read in a shorter time-

People who would not try to write in more demanding forms
Can try to write in it-

Its subject is human feeling
It touches on our deepest experiences-

Almost everyone has a poem in them
And most a poem they have been moved by-

It is everywhere
And seems to be a part of every culture-

Language at its most intense is what Poetry is
And most of us have our intense moments-

Poetry is open to us all
And we can take it with us wherever we go.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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These Are Just Years

i thought home is where we went when we fell out of favour
ive since learned that home is where we go to learn what favours are
home is a language we all understand
and this is how the language came to me
i realise
home is where we dont feel things
fortune has arranged that the language wont abandon us
it never will abandon us
if you dont miss your home
i cant remember much about my home
when im away from...
home, where were welcome
we appear to be like you
the were welcome when we
appear to be alike
living in fiction
just seems much better than living in words
if you live in fiction
homes no match for a word
ever existence
the more you go on the same as before
the more you light up the same as this time
the more you sing
all your songs about
all your...
living in fiction
is much more better than living in words
if you live in fiction
homes much better than words
living in fiction
just seems much better than living in words
if you live in fiction
then homes no better than words
im in fiction [x6]
and what i see it seems so standard
it always seems that youre left stranded [x6]
why dont you look beond
the village wall?
look beyond the village wall
weve got four walls at home
got four walls at home
and these walls around your head
thats what they are
theyre walls around your head
an empty head is creative
and direct me
to where you come from
and what you thought you knew
where you come from
[?]
home is the most overused word [x4]
love is the most overused word
just are the most overused words
picture this the most

song performed by by Idlewild
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coming Home

Ive not been home
For so many years
And I did not regret being gone
Please tell me when did we talk
And when did we show
That we do care for something called love
Oh no, dont you despair now
Im as grown up as can be
Cant you forget everything
And this time listen to me
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - why dont you help me
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - why dont you love me
Its time to remember
What weve done together
I guess it is more than we know
And we should be open
And turn back the wheels
As far as we can go
I know I am your son
And everything else dont seem real
I want you back like never before
I cant take another goodbye
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - please, cant you be there
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - please, dont you leave me
Whats dones done - Im your son
Ive been hurt by your lies
I want peace after all
Thats why I want you to let me come home
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - lets fight together
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - Ive so much to tell you
Home - Im coming home
Im coming home - time heals the scars of the past
Im coming home
Im coming home - to be by your side
Im coming home - Im coming home
Im coming home - Ive so much to tell you
Im coming home - Im coming home,............

song performed by by U. D. O.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry

Brewing a good poem takes time,
Doesn't matured whiskey taste better
On the rocks or with cordial lime?
Also a love matured is sweeter

Poetry is not about using fancy
words,
Though one might employ one or two
For it leads to many roads:
Emotions, memories-
experiences too

Most mistake poetry for the canvas
But is not, It is the journey,
The clay being mould into a vase,
The process of making the honey

It isn't alone the protagonist,
It's every one behind the scenes,
The chemical reaction not the catalyst
Nor the song but why one sings

Poetry is untying a gordian knot simply,
Its teaching angels how to fly,
Nothing like a show of Mr.Ripley,
Its the tears of joy God would cry.

poem by Isunge Mwangase
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rational Shortcomings

(An intertexual marriage poem of an excerpt from a teacher’s letter to parents, a letter from a mother to the child she gave away for adoption and a letter that I should not have seen)

Dear Parents or Guardians,
First I want to say that I didn’t hand you over because I hated you
The photography man is coming
Hello, I just wanted to remind everybody about spelling
I didn’t hate you you might not believe me but I truly love you
Between 6: 30AM and 6: 45AM to set up
The last test scores were horrible and I threw them out
I want you to know that I am hoping you are reading this letter
I warned him that the klubs are here in the morning
I will not do so again
And hope you do not have any hate in your heart for me
Until 8: 30AM
Your child should practice spelling their words
Because if my life was different I would have kept you
He still wanted to come
And do their spelling homework every night
So close to my heart because you are so special
That’s his problem…
Spelling homework for the week is:
I know you are saying
Monday: Write the first five words three times
“Why she gave me away.”
Tuesday: Write the last five words three times
My life was so hard at the time…

poem by Christopher J. Grasso
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Being A Poet

I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.

Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.

At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.

If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.

There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.

I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.

Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.

In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.

With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.

Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!

poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Won't You Come Home

Well i was out a drinkin'
With a couple of friends of mine
When the bartender handed me the telephone
Says "there's a wife on the line."
I told her i was just a drinkin'
With a couple of buddies i knew
She told me in a few short words
Just a what she wanted me to do
She said "oh won't you come home and talk to a stranger.
Cause you might even make yourself a friend."
She said "won't you come home and talk to a stranger.
It's the only place in days you haven't been."
Well i sat there about an hour
Talkin' with the rest of the guys
When she walked through that front door
She had "get home" in her eyes
She said "you've danced and talked
With every woman in town but me.
And if you'd just come around the house
You might like my company."
She said "oh won't you come home and talk to a stranger.
Cause you might even make yourself a friend."
She said "won't you come home and talk to a stranger.
It's the only place in days you haven't been."
She said "oh won't you come home and talk to a stranger.
Cause you might even make yourself a friend."
She said "won't you come home and talk to a stranger.
It's the only place in days you haven't been.

song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Won't You Come Home (And Talk To A Stranger)

Well I was out a drinkin' with a couple of friends of mine
When the bartender handed me the telephone
Said there's a wife on the line
I told her I was just a drinkin' with a couple of buddies I knew
but she told me in a few short words
Just what she wanted me to do
She said won't you come home and talk to a stranger
You might even make yourself a friend
She said won't you come home and talk to a stranger
It's the only place in days you haven't been
Well I sat there about an hour talkin' with the rest of the guys
When she walked through that front door
She had get home in her eyes
She said you've danced and talked with every woman in town but me
And if you'd just come around the house you might like my company
She said won't you come home and talk to a stranger
You might even make yourself a friend
She said won't you come home and talk to a stranger
It's the only place in days you haven't been
She said won't you come home and talk to a stranger
You might even make yourself a friend
She said won't you come home and talk to a stranger
It's the only place in days you haven't been

song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry Is Like A Beautiful Work Of Art

A poem has no write or
wrong,
How to write your poem
is up to you,
Visualize a perfect poem
That readers will love,
Adjust a poem as much as
you want,
Remember a poem is like
art,
You write it with meaning
and passion,
Add as much as your heart
desires,
Short or long it does not
matter,
Add a picture with your
poem,
Add a quote or a verse,
it is a poet's decision,
Always be proud of your poem,
Let the words flow when you
write,
A poem expresses a feeling,
thought and emotion,
Add a frame and hang it up
on a wall,
share your talents with the
world,
Poetry is like a beautiful
work of art.

poem by Derek James
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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